The Faded Frontier
The ink bleeds. You watch it spread. Black water on white paper. It soaks the fiber. It eats the words. You are here. You are not here. The train moves. It shakes the car. It shakes your hands. You hold the sheet. You hold the name. Eleanor Fairchild. Her name is a mark. A brand. It burns. It fades. You are the reader. You are the writer. You are the eraser. The window shows the fields. Gray....
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews